


A Phoenix in the Water

by JustMeP



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Christmas, Community: spnsummergen, Emotional Hurt, Gen, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Sam Winchester-centric, Sam at Stanford, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMeP/pseuds/JustMeP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam left for Stanford, he tried for once to take his father's advice and never look back, but kept in touch with Dean for the first year. This is the story of that lost time, and what ended it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Phoenix in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_summergen 2014 challenge for safiyabat.  
> Keep in mind Sam left for Stanford in 2002 and probably had his last contact with Dean late in 2003, since Dean came to pick him up in October 2005. Friendly reminder: Brady got possessed in Thanksgiving 2002/3, and he introduced Jess to Sam early in 2004.
> 
> Many thanks to wind_storms for the beta, providing ideas, corrections and support, acting as a human super-wiki and for the many touch ups. All remaining errors are mine.  
> Title is taken from the lyrics of Home by Gabrielle Aplin.  
> Playlist to accompany the fic can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/justmep2/a-phoenix-in-the-water).
> 
> Original Prompt: "Sam was at Stanford for 3 1/2 years but Dean says in the Pilot that they've had no contact for two years. I'd like to see the reasons for that separation."

All in all, life was supposed to be good for Sam Winchester. Palo Alto was sunny and welcoming, the days passing by without him even noticing. Though only in the middle of his less-than-exciting freshman year, he enjoyed his classes, and okay, Professor McKinley's class was the exception, but he was so tired that he spent most of those snoozing anyway.  
College was everything Sam expected and more. He had a dorm room, shared it with two roommates, but still, his own place, his own  _room_. He never had his own room before, couldn't think of a time he slept in a bed with no one beside him. It took him some time, but he finally unpacked his duffel and stored it in the closet, starting to think of the tiny room as more than temporary. Hell, by the time the year ends it would be the longest period of time he’d ever spent anywhere, might as well make himself comfortable.

The library was huge, bigger than any library he's ever seen before – and that was saying something since he visited more libraries all over the country than most other people, either for pleasure or research. The sunny campus grounds were always loud with groups of people laughing or studying, the cafeteria always packed, the corridors full of people.

It was easy not to think during the day with classes, school work and people surrounding him. It was the nights that were different.  
Sam had a hard time falling asleep that first night. In fact, he still does. He can’t fall asleep unless completely exhausted, wearing himself out and spending the better part of his nights studying. So really, Professor McKinley's class? He waited for it, the professor's monotone voice serving as a lullaby to Sam's ears.

Brady – one of his roommates – kept telling him he needed to let loose. Study less, party some more, "you know, live a little". Sam usually just smiled in response, reminded him he was on a scholarship and needed to keep his grades up, but he couldn't help but think of another person when the words were often uttered.

Dean. He hadn't heard from him – hell, it's been months now. There were the occasional texts, short, informative updates.  _"Heading south. Werewolf down in Tennessee. You good?",_ and " _Werewolf ganked. Dad's been injured. He'll be fine. You okay?"_  
Occasionally there was no update, just the "you okay?" part.

More than once Sam was tempted to dial the familiar number, one of the few saved on his cell and still first on speed dial. He couldn't bring himself to do it though, couldn't face his brother's – what? Disappointment? Anger? Sense of betrayal?  
He knew how his father felt; he didn't leave much room for doubt. That was a mixture of all three, telling him that if he leaves he should never look back.  
Dean – It was different with Dean. He always tried not to intervene in their arguments, not to take sides. Sometimes it only made things worse, sometimes Sam knew – he just  _knew_  Dean knows he's right, should take his side in it, man up and stand up against their father. They were supposed to be a team, brothers. Dean didn't take shit from anyone, yet when it came to Dad… Always the solider. Always taking orders. No doubts, no questions asked, no nothing. It drove Sam insane. How could his brother just stand there and take it? Hell, how could he have stood there and listen to their father telling Sam he should never come back, and not say a word?  
The texting, it was nothing. Just Dean doing his job, probably taking orders from Dad. Dad, always the control freak, always wanting to know what Sam was up to, even now. It wasn't about love, Sam decided that when he was about 16. It was never about love. Just control.

Didn't mean it hurt any less.  
School breaks were always associated with freedom in his mind. Dad felt he could leave for longer periods of time in summer, free from the constant need to worry about anyone noticing he's not around much, and the older they got, the more time he and Dean just spent on their own instead of summer at Bobby's or at Pastor Jim's. When Sam was 14 Dad gave Dean the Impala and bought his old truck, resulting in lazy days on the road, just the two of them driving with no particular destination. That first summer Dean taught him how to drive and nearly ended up getting the both of them arrested.

Winter breaks weren't that different. He could still remember Dean getting them a Christmas tree when he was eight, claiming it to be John's work when he failed to show up. They had a good time that Christmas, just the two of them, and it became some sort of tradition with crappy gifts and extra-strong eggnog Dean used to make them ( _"just don't tell Dad"_ ).  
In his sophomore year he joined Dad and Dean on his first hunt. Dean was out of high school by then, and Dad said winter break was the perfect opportunity. Sam felt excited about finally doing more than just research, and scared, and other things he couldn't put his finger on. He screwed up that first hunt, just a simple salt and burn. Dad didn't say anything, but he looked disappointed, like he expected more of him. Like he brought home a poor report card, only he never had, and Dad never cared about that stuff anyway.  
Christmas didn't seem like something that was worth even mentioning that year. Christmas was for normal families, with their normal house and normal gifts and delicious dinners, like the Thanksgiving dinner he had with Stephanie a few years back. Not for Winchesters.

So for once in his life, Sam tried to take his dad's advice and not look back.  
They didn't talk much when Dean drove him to the bus stop the night he left. When they got there his brother handed him a pile of crumpled bills and his cell, which he didn't even notice he’d left back in the motel, told him he'd keep him updated on their whereabouts and asked Sam to let him know when he gets to Palo Alto. Sam pouted in response, told him he wasn't a little kid that needed to let his big brother know when he got to his destination. Dean gave him a firm look at first that quickly softened to a small smirk when Sam took the phone reluctantly. They never said goodbye.  
When Sam got there he texted Dean dryly, kept it short.  _"I'm in California."_  
That appeared to have defined the status quo of their relationship now.

Sam tried. Damn it, he tried. He tried to fit in, to be just another college kid, a new kid in a sea of new kids. To not notice the signs of a clearly haunted house just outside campus (which he took care of, because somebody could have gotten hurt and it was a simple salt and burn that didn’t mean anything, anyway); to not have his gun loaded and ready in the drawer; to not think of his father's words or how alone he felt. No matter what happened before, no matter how bad things got with Dad, he’d never felt this lonely before, this isolated.

He was surrounded by people twenty four seven and never felt lonelier in his life. It wasn't the lying about his background – he avoided the subject whenever he could, and when he couldn't, he told the closest thing to the truth that wasn't the truth. It wasn't even how he was fighting his own instincts, years' worth of training to notice even the slightest hint of the supernatural.

When he thought about it, it was rather simple.  
He missed Dean.  
Staring at the dark, empty space in his room at night felt sometimes like he was missing a limb. Smug, annoying, childish, self-righteous Dean, who was also caring, protective, funny,  _his big brother_  Dean.

The weird thing was, instead of getting easier it got harder with time. The more time he spent in college, the more time he spent apart from his brother with only the occasional texts, the harder it got. He couldn't find the courage to pick up the damn phone –  _"don't be such a girl, Sammy"_  – and Dean probably didn't want to, just kept him informed with short, cold messages like maybe Sam was going to jump in anytime and he'll need to know their location.

Winter took Sam by surprise. For some reason he expected the warm Californian autumn to last forever, but before he knew it the air had gotten colder, the bright-green grass was filling with stray leaves and it was time for winter break. Brady and Lee – his other roommate – were enthusiastically discussing their plans in the main room while packing. Sam tried to shut them out, was just about to put in his earphones when Brady's face popped in the door.

"Hey man, why aren't you packing?" he asked, scanning the room for signs of folded clothes or open bags he’d missed.

"I'm gonna stay here, use the spare time to catch up on some work," Sam replied and turned on his iPod. Christmas didn't mean anything, never had, but the thought of having the room – probably the whole damn campus just to himself wasn't high on his wish list.

"Sam, man, you have to give yourself a break sometimes. Come on, it's Christmas. I know you said your family is always on the road, but don't you wanna join them, take a break from this place?" Brady asked.

"Nah, I'm good here," Sam said, trying his best to end the conversation.

"You sure? Hey, my mom's having tons of guests for Christmas dinner, she wouldn't mind you joining in," he said.

"Thanks man, it's okay, really. I've been waiting for some quiet time forever." Sam lied through his teeth.

Brady didn't seem to buy it, but he finally let the subject go, and soon after that both he and Lee were gone.

Sam spent most of his winter break in the library. The place was quiet – well, quieter than usual, but there were some seniors hanging around on the otherwise deserted campus so Sam made a point to stay there every day until closing time, with the exception of coffee runs; triple red-eyes, no sugar. By the time Christmas Eve was nearing he’d already finished all of his work but he still kept showing up, reading some extra material and occasionally lingering a little too long in the occult section.

His floor in the dorms was equally deserted, so when he heard a knock on the door, just getting out of the shower with his hair still damp, he approached the door carefully, picking up his gun from the dresser on his way and holding it behind his back.  _"Never can be too careful"_ , his father's voice echoed in his ears. Stupid habit.  
He opened the door cautiously, and froze on the spot.

"Heya, Sammy,"

"Dean?"

"Yes, princess. Already forgot my handsome face?"

"What the hell are you doing here? What's wrong?" Okay, not the first thing he wanted to say – but Dean being there couldn't be good news.

"Relax, nothing's wrong. Hey, you got anything to eat? I'm starving." Dean didn't wait for an invite, he just entered the room with Sam still standing by the doorway.

"Dad's okay?" Sam asked nervously. Dean would never come all the way to California unless something was seriously wrong, something he couldn't text or say on the phone.

"He's fine. He's off with Bobby, doing their own gig. I was just in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by," he grinned at him.

"In the neighborhood? Dean, last we talked you were in Ohio!" And that was only five days ago. The drive to California alone must have taken him at least three or four days, and that's only if he drove most of the time.

"Well, I'm not anymore. Food?" His brother grunted.

"Leftovers are in the fridge. Help yourself." Sam gestured at the kitchen, and went to sit by the counter.

Dean peeked inside the fridge, opened the takeout box and made a disgusted face. "Ugh, Sam, I asked about  _food._  This is  _salad._ "

"I wasn't expecting guests. And you don't have to  _eat my food_  if you don't want to." Sam replied.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Come on, let's go find us some real food."

 

 

* * *

  
It took Sam a few more minutes for the shock and worry to completely wear off. If something was wrong with Dad, Dean would have said something by now, but Dean seemed to be in a genuinely good mood. When they were little Dean could wear his poker face and Sam would have bought it. Today? Not so much. It was still hard deciphering Dean sometimes, but Sam could usually call him on his bullshit.  
  
He got dressed while Dean busied himself pacing around the small room. Walking down the stairs of the apartment building and seeing the Impala parked there seemed almost unnatural. Like she wasn't supposed to be there, doesn't belong in this life and at the same time, it was like seeing an old friend. He stood there for a moment, staring at the car.  
  
Dean startled him from his thoughts. "Come on, you coming or what?"  
  
They got in the car, Dean in the driver's seat, Sam by his side and it felt… Right. Familiar. And wrong. And all sorts of confusing. Why was it so confusing? This was  _Dean,_ his own brother, not a stranger. So why -?  
  
Dean disturbed his inner monologue yet again, switching on the engine and turning to look at him.  
  
"Chinese?" Dean asked.  
  
"What?" Sam asked, surprised.  
  
"Food, Sammy, concentrate. I swear you look like you haven't eaten in months, you may need it more than I do. Chinese sound good?" He explained.  
  
"Yeah – yeah, sure. There's this place a couple of miles away, I bet it’s open."  
  
"Awesome."  
  
They sat the rest of the drive in silence, just the music from Dean's ridiculous cassette player playing in the background. It wasn't awkward, though. It felt good, simple.  
Sam gave directions when they were nearing the restaurant, decorated with cheap, cheesy Christmas lights. It was only then that it occurred to him that this was Christmas Eve. Did Dean? – No. 'Course he didn't.  
  
"Merry Christmas, boys!" A cheerful waitress greeted them at the table.  
  
"Um, yeah, you too." Sam replied nervously.  
  
He remembered last Christmas all too well. Dad thought he had a lead on the Demon and left in a hurry, right after they’d had a major fight. He couldn't even remember what it was about, but it left him and Dean alone in the small apartment. Dean skipped the tree – they hadn’t done the Christmas thing since Sam was fifteen, straight after his first hunt, saying that spending money on a tree was pointless, it's not like he's a little kid waiting for Santa. Dean murmured something about it not being their money, and thinking back, he’d looked disappointed. On Christmas Day, Sam finally found the courage to fill out his application to Stanford.  
  
"What can I get you?" The waitress asked, and Dean barely looked at his menu before answering.  
  
"I'll have the Beef With Broccoli, with no broccoli," he grinned at her.  
  
"California Roll and Chicken Salad for me," Sam asked.  
  
"Oh, and.. two beers?" Dean added.  
  
"Sure. Coming your way." The waitress smiled again – Geez, she was way too perky for someone working on Christmas Eve, and left.  
  
"So Sammy, how are things?" Dean broke the brief silence.  
  
"Good, it's good." Sam said, not sure what that even meant himself.  
  
"You're full of insight today, Spock," Dean teased.  
  
"Well, it is. College is good. Got my classes, my room, some friends. You know," Sam answered. And it was good, in a way. It was also lonely,  _empty._  
  
"Actually, no, I don't." Dean said, the edge lost from his voice.  
  
"You can still have it, you know," Sam said quietly.  
  
"Have what?" his brother asked, looking confused.  
  
"College. Friends. Life."  _Family,_ Sam neglected to add at the last minute.  
  
"Nah. That's your thing, you know that. I didn't even graduate from high school," Dean replied while taking a sudden interest in his napkin, folding it into a small, asymmetric triangle.  
  
"That's because you cared more about hunting," Sam pushed.  
  
"So?" Dean asked, and raised his gaze from the napkin to meet Sam's.  
  
"So, Dean, you can have something else. You don't have to live like Dad, moving around from place to place, hunting full time." Sam blurted out fast while he still felt he had the courage to.  
  
Dean looked at him for a moment, but his expression was hard to read. "I want to."  
  
"You do?" Sam asked, surprised. Sure, Dean chose to stay, chose to hunt, he loved hunting. But actually wanting it, wanting  _that_ life -  
  
"I want to find the thing the killed Mom. And if I happen to save people's lives while at it, sure." He said, making it clear the conversation was over.  
  
"All right," Sam said simply, even if it wasn't.  
  
"All right." Dean agreed.  
  
They fell into a short silence, when Sam remembered he’d never asked, once it was clear nothing was wrong he’d never asked  _why._  
  
"So what brought you here?" he prompted.  
  
"What?" Dean asked, but Sam could see right through him.  
  
"You said you were in the neighborhood. What are you after?" he clarified, although Dean knew exactly what he meant.  
  
"Oh, there's this.. thing." Dean muttered.  
  
"Thing?" Sam knew he might be pushing it too far, but he wanted to know, needed to hear it.  
  
"Yeah, just a salt and burn. Abandoned house, no big deal." Dean said, and unfolded his napkin, now trying to fold it into a fan shape.  
  
"You came all the way to California for a ghost haunting an abandoned house,  _by yourself_?" Sam asked, sounding dubious.  
  
"Yep."  
  
At that moment, the waitress came back with their food. Dean granted her one of his signature grins, looking grateful as only Dean could when getting food, but then he turned to look at Sam's plate with awe.  
  
"What?" Sam asked.  
  
"Sushi, Sam? Really?" Dean asked, looking offended.  
  
"What's wrong with sushi?" Sam demanded.  
  
"Well, for starters, it's sushi. You've gone from rabbit food to fish food, Sammy." He huffed, looking very self-satisfied with his own joke.  
  
"It's not fish food, Dean, it got fish  _in it_." Sam said with annoyance.  
  
"Seaweed, man, you're eating seaweed. Have some breadcrumbs instead. Still fish food, but not as gross." He chuckled.  
  
Sam stepped on his foot in reply, and okay, maybe throwing a sushi slice at him wasn't the most mature thing to do, but -  
  
"Oh no, you won't!" he said, as Dean raised his fork with menace.  
  
"I'm gonna kill you!" Sam yelped as the rice hit his shirt, and damn it was messy with all that sauce, and this was a  _new shirt_. Dean chuckled yet again, and raised his hand in surrender just as the old couple from the next table granted them matching disapproving looks.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Sammy." he grinned.  
  
"Merry Christmas, bro." Sam answered, smiling back.

 

 

* * *

  
Spring was as much as a surprise to Sam as winter was months before. Time moved differently in Stanford, or so it seemed. Things had gotten better since winter break ended ( _since Dean_ ), he slept a little better, allowed himself the occasional break joining Brady and Lee in the bar sometimes. His brother's sudden visit lasted only a day, and they didn't actually speak since he’d left. They kept to their texting routine, less cold, less formal, but still only texting like they had some kind of unsaid agreement. In a way Sam felt he needed to stay far away, if only not to feel like a total fraud, living the college life while talking about hunting, what else could Dean want to talk about, wanting not to feel like a fraud to himself, telling himself he's done but hearing Dean going on and on about it. They never talked about Dad, but Sam felt it was easier on Dean as well. If nothing changed, and when did  _anything_  change, Dean spent most of his time with their dad, doing research, interviewing witnesses, sharing a puny motel room. It was better for him as well, Sam decided.  
  
May crept up on him just like April did, the days getting warmer and warmer. He spent most of the day – his 20th birthday – studying for finals. Nobody really knew him around campus, but his MySpace profile listed his birthday, which resulted with Brady practically dragging him to the bar.  
  
"Come on man, it's your birthday and there's someone I want you to meet," Brady pleaded and Sam agreed, thinking a little air wasn't such a bad idea.  
  
When they got to the bar, Brady seemed disappointed.  "Crap, Veronica told me she'd be here," he said, still scanning the place.  
  
"Who?" Sam asked, curious.  
  
"Jessica. I wanted to introduce you, she's perfect for you man. Blonde, hot, geeky. Like you but a chick." Brady hiccupped. Clearly he didn't wait to get to the bar to start drinking.  
  
"If I didn't know any better I'd say you've got the hots for me, man," Sam laughed, but they didn't get to finish the conversation when a waitress carrying a small cake arrived at their table, to the loud, off-key "Happy Birthday to you" sung by his friends.  
  
"More shots!" Luis called, winking at Sam, who a few months ago finally cracked and directed him to someone who can make a decent fake ID instead of the crappy one Luis used to own ( _"Just so we're clear, I want nothing to do with this. I just don't want you to get caught and kicked out_. _"_ ).  
  
Just as Luis came back with their shots, Sam's phone came to life and it was Dean's name on the screen.  
Shit.  
Shit, shit, shit. Dean never called him, and now that he thinks about it, he hadn't texted him at least since he’d told him they were on their way to Alabama.  _"I don't know what it is but it's nasty."_ Shit.  
  
"What's wrong?" Sam answered nervously, moving away from the table to the loud protest of Lee and his Bushmills.  
  
"Hello to you too, princess," came Dean's answer from the other side. Sam immediately relaxed just from the sound of his voice, sounding cheerful, not like he'd sound like if somebody had died or gotten hurt.  
  
"Sorry, I'm not used to you calling," he mumbled and now that he was standing he suddenly realized that last shot was really unnecessary.  
  
"What's all that noise? Are you actually out? With  _people_?" Dean asked, sounding amused.  
  
"Eat me," Sam supplied with the best comeback he could come up with. Yes,  _definitely_  unnecessary.  
  
"Are you  _drunk_?" Dean demanded, but he sounded anything but disapproving.  
  
"No." Sam answered, grinning like an idiot.  
  
"Oh, you so are. Well look at you college boy, drinking in a bar. Next thing you'll tell me you're with a girl," Dean said.  
  
"Just some friends," Sam answered.  
  
"Yeah, okay, I won't keep you from your beer. Happy Birthday, Sammy."  
  
"Thanks, Dean."

 

 

* * *

  
Sam didn't often think about his mom. Not that he had much to think of, even if he’d wanted to. These past few days he did, after spending the Halloween weekend at Lee's with his family. His mother reminded him of her a little.  
  
The only image of his mom that Sam ever had in his mind was thanks to one fading photograph Dean gave him on his first day of pre-school. It was the first time Sam noticed he was different, that his family was different. Other children had a house. Other children had a dog, a backyard, a mom and a dad. Sam had the Impala, a dad and a Dean. That's all he ever knew, all he ever needed. He couldn't remember the exact time he was told his mommy was an angel in the sky, that she’d died when he was only a baby. It was just something he knew, like he knew his own name or that the sky was blue. He told it to his teacher when she asked about his parents, and her eyes started to water. He told it to some of his new classmates when they talked about their families as well, but there was nothing wrong with their eyes. They just looked at him weird, one of the older kids telling him he was lying, that his mommy didn't love him so she’d left him.  
When he got back home that day he tried to be brave like Dean had taught him, but he failed in hiding the tears. It was the first and only time he can remember ever talking about his mother. Not about "hunting the thing that killed mom", or "the night mom died". Just mom.  
  
Dean told him she was beautiful, with bright blonde hair and a huge smile. That she used to sing them lullabies every night, and would let Dean touch her belly when she was pregnant ( _"It was me, right, Dean? Right?"  -"No, Sammy, it was my other annoying little brother"  -"Dean!"_ ). That she loved them very, very much ( _"Like you love me?"  -"Don’t be a girl, Sammy")_ , and called Dean her angel and Sam her little angel ( _"Because I'm littler?"  -"You say smaller, Sammy, not littler")_. That she didn't want to leave them like Joshua had said.  
Somehow it didn't make him feel any better, only worse. He could notice the sadness in Dean's eyes even at the delicate age of five, but Sam didn't feel sad, not about mom. How could he miss someone he couldn’t remember? How can he feel sorrow because of somebody he'd never met in his life?  
  
As he grew older, Sam learned to avoid asking. Dean told him they shouldn't talk about her, that it makes Dad sad, and Sam didn't want that. So he didn’t. She was always there, always a silent presence in the background, but there wasn't a voice or a real smile associated with 'mom'. Just the pale photograph of a smiling woman he never knew and never will. He expected to feel sad about it as he gets older, just like Dean, but the sadness never came. Not about her, exactly. He couldn't grieve her, couldn't miss her. He grieved for the life he could have had, never had. He missed  _something_ , missed  _a mom_ , but not  _his mom._  
  
Sometimes he felt guilty about it. Other times, he got jealous, almost mad. Dean had all those memories, all those stories he wouldn't share. Dean had  _a mom_  to remember, to think of when he's upset. Sam… Sam only had Dad. When things got bad with his father, whenever John would fail to appear or stayed out of contact for days, all he could think of was that things could have been different.  
  
Once when he was sixteen, on the worst fight Sam could remember them having except for the night he left for Stanford, he told his father he wished he was the one who died in the fire and Mom was the one who survived. He regretted it the moment he said it, but it was too late to take back the words. Dad got quiet, losing all the fight in him in a moment, looked at him and just said quietly, "So do I".  
  
Days at Stanford passed differently, the months coming and going so fast he could barely keep track. His calendar was revolving around classes, assignments to be handed in, exams he needed to take.  
  
When Dean knocked on his door in the middle of the night a couple of days after Halloween, he was the last person he expected to see. They haven't had a real conversation in months, reverting back to their texting routine, and while he expected his brother to show up around Christmas it was over a month away, and it was way too late at night for a social call.  
The first thing Sam noticed when he opened the door was the smell, a mixture of blood and alcohol he was far too familiar with.  
  
"Dean?" he called, neglecting to keep his voice down. Dean's face was covered in blood, his shirt stained and torn in several places, the once light-blue jeans now dark from dirt.  
  
"Sammy," Dean groaned and collapsed inside.  
  
Sam acted quickly, grabbing him before he could hit the floor and with some effort he managed to drag him to the sofa, half sitting-half lying.  
  
"Dean. Hey, Dean, look at me. What happened?"  
  
"Ghouls," his brother hissed.  
  
" _Ghouls,_ as in plural? Did they bite you?" he asked, not able to see the source of the blood.  
  
"Just a scratch," Dean dismissed him.  
  
"Dean." Sam said quietly, with a hint of warning to his voice.  
  
To this, Dean tilted his head back a little, exposing a wide slash on his throat.  
  
"Shit. Stay still, I'll be right back," Sam ordered and didn't wait for an answer, running straight to the bathroom. He found the half-empty first aid kit, containing a few small gauzes but not much more and nothing to help stitch up the wound. He then went into his room, looked in his closet frantically until he found what he was after, a small sewing kit with a needle – it was gonna hurt like a bitch, but what other choice does he have? - and went back to the main room hastily. Dean was still lying in the same position he’d left him in a few moments ago, his eyes closed.  
  
"Oh God. Dean, man, open your eyes." He got closer, shaking his shoulders. "Dean!" and –  
  
"Keep it down, will you?" Dean slurred. Thank god.  
  
"Jerk. Keep your eyes open and tell me what happened while I take care of this," Sam dictated, now taking a closer look at the cut. It wasn't nearly as deep as he’d first feared, but it was wide and still bleeding, and Dean was as pale as a ghost.  
  
"Sam? The fuck's going on?" Came a drowsy voice from behind him. Brady.  
  
"Go back to bed, man. It's just my brother, sorry we woke you," he said, hoping hard Brady wasn't awake enough to comprehend any part of the conversation he might have overheard.  
  
"Your brother – shit, what's wrong with him? Do you need me to call an ambulance?" Brady asked, now coming closer.  
  
"No!" both Sam and Dean yelled at the same time, and Brady blinked at them with suspicion.  
  
"No, he's fine. Bar fight. I've got this," Sam reassured him, earning a skeptical look from his friend. A moment later, Brady went back in his room and Sam waited a couple seconds more before he continued.  
  
"So?" he asked once they were alone again, while attending the wound.  
  
"Nothing to tell. I was after some ghouls. Ghouls ganked. End of story," Dean spluttered.  
  
"On your own? How did you even get here? Where's Dad?" Sam was getting tired of the one-sided conversation. Now that it was clear his brother was fine, although a little beaten, worry slowly turned into anger.  
  
"I – Ow. I drove." Dean answered.  
  
"Oh, nice one. Where's Dad?" Sam asked again.  
  
"Off." Yes, his brother was full of details tonight, showing up in the middle of the night with a wound that could have been lethal if it was one more inch to the left.  
  
"Off? Off where?" He asked.  
  
"Dunno. Don't – SON OF A BITCH!" Dean jerked and cried out in pain, and Sam moved the needle out of the way just in time. He decided that was enough stitching, as the bleeding had finally stopped.  
  
"Sorry. You okay?" Sam asked.  
  
"'M fine." Dean said, sounding anything but fine.  
  
"You stink. Are you drunk?" Sam asked, his tone switching again from sympathy to resentment.  
  
"Out of pain meds." Dean stated like it was the most reasonable explanation.  
  
"So you decided whiskey was the best solution, while driving, with a gash on your throat?" Sam asked, his voice growing higher.  
  
"Yeah." His brother said simply. This wasn't going anywhere.  
  
"Idiot. What are you doing in California?" He tried a different tactic.  
  
"Ghouls." Dean said again. Maybe it wasn't the best time for this, but honestly, Sam deserved some answers.  
  
"Cut the crap. Why are you here?" Sam asked.  
  
"Let it go, Sam." And now Dean sounded just as pissed as Sam was, and he got to his feet slowly, using the couch for support.  
  
"The hell I will. You show up here in the middle of the night, wasted and injured for no reason and – oh," Sam stopped as it finally struck him.  
  
"It's Mom, isn't it?" he asked.  
  
"What does she got to do with anything?" Dean tried, but Sam had already figured it out.  
  
"It's today." Sam said quietly.  
  
"The fuck you're talking about?" Dean started.  
  
"It's today, so you decided to go on a suicide mission all by yourself for the anniversary." Sam stated. He wasn't asking.  
  
"Shut it, Sam," his brother demanded.  
  
"You were the one to show up here, not me. Now –" Dean tried to cut him off, but Sam didn't let him.  
  
"No, I don't wanna hear it. The fact Mom died when she was 29 doesn't mean you need to try and do your best not to live to your own 29th birthday, Dean. Dad threw away his life for it, Hell, he threw away  _our_  lives. You don't need to go get yourself killed to avenge her. You don't have to continue what Dad started, it won't do you any good, it won't bring her back." Sam blurted it out fast, before Dean could cut him off. Dean, the big hero, invincible Dean who nearly got himself killed for – what, exactly?  
  
"Screw you. You don't know –" Dean started, but Sam wasn't hearing it. Not tonight.  
  
"I don't. I don't know her, Dean. I'm sorry, but I don't. She is a stranger to me. I didn't have her around to let me pet her belly or call me her angel, I don't know what she sounded like, I don't know anything about her. But it doesn't matter. She's our mom and I love her but you have to let go, man, you need to live your life and put it to rest, put her to rest." Sam finished, fighting back the tears. Dean was going to get himself killed, Dad was going to get the both of them killed, if they continued like this. It wasn't a question of  _if_  but  _when_ , and even if it was later rather than sooner, Sam knew this life too well, too well to know it wasn't a life at all. And while he didn't want Dad to die, he was too far gone, too consumed by his crusade for revenge. Dean – Dean still had his whole life ahead of him, still had a choice.  
  
His brother looked at him with a mixture of hurt, rage and god knows what else.  
  
"Fuck you, Sam." he said, and abruptly turned to the door and slammed it behind him.  
  
Dean never texted him when he got back to Dad.  
It was only after Jess died twelve months later, that Sam finally understood grief and the desperate need for revenge, felt it burning inside him. He wished he never did.


End file.
